


Mischief Sleeps In My Bed

by AuthorA97



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, M/M, Rosie is a cutie, Sherlock tries to help, Sherlock uses science to help John, john dates again, they end up together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 10:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11621775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuthorA97/pseuds/AuthorA97
Summary: It's been awhile since Mary died, since that whole fiasco with Eurus. John doesn't think he's ready for a real relationship. Sherlock decides to help.





	Mischief Sleeps In My Bed

**Author's Note:**

> I sent a gif to my friend of John going "then I will sit here, consumed with lust for the evening" and suddenly this fic was born.

John did not need help getting back to date.

Now that’s not saying he was even  _ ready _ to start dating again. No. Mary had only been gone for seven months. That seemed too soon to be moving on. So much had already changed. He had moved back into Baker Street, for one thing. Money had started being tight, he had to sell his and Mary’s flat. When Sherlock had offered up his old flat, John couldn’t say ‘yes’ fast enough.

No, really. He couldn’t say it. Sherlock said it for him. John thinks the exact words were “You’re moving back in. Bring Rosie. Mrs Hudson will have your new key by morning. Now, we must find this man’s brother. It’s obvious he killed him over their father’s will. So tedious.”

Sure enough, Mrs Hudson gave John a new key to the flats. After the whole incident with Eurus, neither Holmes brother were willing to take chances. The locks were replaced randomly. Sometimes only Sherlock’s lock would be replaced. Other times it would be John’s. Never all three locks at once, oh no. Surely something would go wrong. All John knew, was that on random days he would find a new key on his ring just when he remembered which door it opened.

John had been worried, of course, about how Sherlock would adjust to Rosie being there all the time. The consulting detective always had an odd sleeping schedule. The only thing more sparse than that was when Sherlock got some food that hadn’t been near dead things.

Turns out, John worried over nothing. Sherlock took quite well to Rosie. John would be making a cuppa, then take a quick glance in the living room to see if his thirteen month old was alright. She’d usually be making some noise or another (John was grateful Sherlock never complained about that. He was already complaining when  _ John _ thought too loudly. It’s insulting to hear you’re noisier than a toddler by a man who acts like a toddler) and John would see Sherlock, letting Rosie hold his incredibly long bony fingers. Rosie was always giggling around her godfather.

He and Sherlock went back to go on cases. Something about Mary’s last DVD struck with him. She was right, as usual. There needed to be a Holmes and a Watson on Baker Street, solving crimes like they’d always been there and always would be (As if Sherlock wasn’t enough like Spock already).

Still, like John was saying, he didn’t help getting a date. He was a bit older, sure. His hair was graying just a bit (okay a lot, but he was technically raising two children and one of them is a Holmes, it would be shocking if he didn’t go gray). He was still a doctor. He was Three Continents Watson! He could get a bloody date.

But that meant asking for a sitter to watch Rosie. Molly was great, but she worked. Mrs Hudson usually watched Rosie during the day, while they solved cases. It was too much to ask she watch Rosie for a night. Rosie herself was too young for a daycare. John knew they never ran this late. He didn’t even consider a nanny. They’d all have to meet Sherlock. If they weren’t crazy fans, they’d be offended by anything Sherlock said as his greeting. If any of them survived that, they’d have to deal with the fingers in the fridge and the mold in the bathtub.

John would sometimes think of asking Sherlock. There was another not good idea, because then Sherlock would know about whatever John did when he came home. Not that he didn’t anyway, but some deep part of John didn’t like Sherlock knowing where he’d been.

The first number he got, he hadn’t even been trying. He was out for a pint with Greg. The older man had invited John after a particularly spectacular tantrum from Sherlock at a crime scene. Something about a Statton whose wife had died. John forgot what Sherlock had to complain about after his third drink.

This woman had come up to him-somewhere in her thirties, he’d say- slipping her number under his hand. John had been surprised. The woman just slyly winked at him before walking off.

As always, he found out.

John hated every time Sherlock found out.

He never wanted a repeat of what happened with Sarah and Chinese circus, all those years ago. He doubted any of the woman he picked up wanted a repeat of that either.

Sherlock didn’t speak to him for days. John was a bit used to that. It was normal for him not to talk for days on end, between cases. He’d play with Rosie, fighting with her about her keeping hold of her toys instead of throwing them at Sherlock’s face. (John always tried to snap a picture on his phone whenever that happened. The closest he ever came to getting the picture was right when the toy came off. Sherlock looked so put off. He still laughs with Greg about it.)

John did get a bit worried when Sherlock had mentioned seeing his sister again. That woman never failed to send shivers up John’s back, make his bad shoulder ache. John let him go without (spoken) compliant. Sherlock still knew John’s reservations. 

He was gone for three days, two nights. A good weekend getaway.

John had left Rosie with various sitters for two days, two nights.

The women he stayed over with had been good for a one-night. He could never see bringing them back. Ever. At all. That’s just the way John wanted it. No chance of taking home anyone, just in case they turned out to be Moriarty’s long lost sister, or the most recent killer Sherlock had been trying to find, or some secret spy from another country.

Yeah. Mary had really left an impact of John. None of the women he paid attention to had been blonde, he made sure of that. They’d been brunettes. (One of them may have been a redhead. John wasn’t sure. That night he’d been well and truly plastered. He’s not even sure how he made it home that night. Had Mycroft had been involved in that? It was a drunken blur.)

After his little tryst weekend of post-death adultery, Sherlock had come back. Every time he returned, he seemed to carry less of the weight of the world on his shoulders. John loved the little giddy smile he’d get, staring down at the violin as he came in the front door of their flat.

John went on a few other one-nights after that. Nothing too grand, or too long. A few of them, he had repeats with, but again nothing serious. He never let himself get truly attached to any of them. It was a good few months.

So you see? John didn’t need any helping getting women.

Which is why he was bloody furious to see Sherlock had made a _ spreadsheet _ on  _ John’s laptop. _

Honestly, for a genius, he was an idiot.

John knew Sherlock had his own laptop. It’d been a new gift from Mycroft (probably why he didn’t use it, worried about bugs inside) which was why (there were definitely bugs inside) Sherlock kept using John’s. 

As he looked at the spreadsheet, John isn’t sure which fact was most troubling. Sherlock had columns for everything. Body type, hair, skin tone, workplace of the women, how long they stayed with John (there was an  _ average time _ on that one!). John was pretty sure he saw some columns to do with sex. He avoided looking at those. 

Yes, John was annoyed. He had full right to be. Sherlock had been looking at his _ dating history _ . What flatmate shouldn’t be annoyed at that?

But he knew Sherlock’s heart was in a good place. John had seen in some of the notes that Sherlock compared a good few of the women to Mary. Some had her blonde hair (Yes, John worked up enough drunken nerve to sleep with the blonde ones again), or her blue eyes. One had her sense of humor. One had been a police officer from out of the country, John remembered that one and it made him smile a bit, to wonder how Sherlock had figured  _ that _ out.

So he put the spreadsheet at the back of his mind. Whatever Sherlock needed to do to deal with Mary’s death and everything with Eurus, he was allowed to do.

Weeks went by. The first anniversary of Mary’s death had come and gone. It was a hard month of Baker Street. John was pretty sure he smashed a few mugs. Sherlock had fired at the wall again (John made a new rule about firing that while Rosie was in the flat. Sherlock had argued it, saying she was downstairs with Mrs Hudson.)

John slept with a couple more women. Not on the week leading up, or the week after. He, instead, drank tea at home, while he and Sherlock sat on their chairs, watching Rosie crawl.

Everything was going okay.

Until John started  _ noticing. _

He hadn’t thought it strange it was, that whenever he went out with Greg for a pint, he ended up with someone. He noticed at one point the women always seemed to go to  _ him _ , not usually the other way around. They always seemed to know  _ exactly  _ what to say to get him to spend the night. Most of them were brunettes, with a blonde thrown in every few days. All a bit daring, all good flirts and lays. John didn’t let himself think of them as anything more than one off’s. He didn’t need a real relationship right now.

John found an email from Sherlock on one of these women (John had thought it was his phone). The so-called _ genius  _ had sent this woman after John, with simple instructions and a picture of John’s face. 

John Watson did not become Captain just to be bested by Sherlock Holmes.

Now, John was going to have a bit of fun.

 

==MSIMB==

 

He checked to see if the spreadsheet was still on his laptop. It was. John read over the new data.

John had purposefully been changing up his ‘routine’ as Sherlock penned it. His dates were all looking different now. Redhead, black haired, dark skinned, light skinned, Scottish, English, this one French woman. Young and fit, older and rounder. Some complete idiots that John felt the slightest bit bad about using like this, other idiots he thought might deserve it just a tad. He never left with a woman he was sure Sherlock had sent.

In fact, on nights he used to go out with Greg, he stayed home and made Sherlock tea. He knew it annoyed Sherlock, he rarely ever drank the tea. John would go out on nights he knew were different than his usual routine. Never the same nights twice in one week. His usual pub was changed to different one across town. He was pretty sure one or two had been from his bachelor party.

John would admit, he was having a bit of fun.

It had taken a couple nights for John to see the change. The spreadsheet was covered with new data. Sherlock seemed to have gotten it in his head that John wanted to  _ ‘try out new types to forget M. Possible relapse. Should persist in experiment.’. _

John was sure Sherlock would have figured it out when John slept with one of the  _ fans _ . He hadn’t. The doctor knew Sherlock was getting a bit annoyed with John changing up his experiment. John could hear him angrily playing the violin late at night. He let himself smile on those nights.

Sherlock got a lot less subtle over the next few weeks. When John turned down Greg for pints, or stayed in on a Saturday, Sherlock would insist John go out. He’d say anything. He’d tell John he would watch Rosie. He’d say he was doing an experiment and needed the flat empty. He’d say he needed to go to his Mind Palace.

John was never completely sure if he was serious or not. He left when Sherlock insisted.

But he never went to a bar on the nights Sherlock told him to go.

No, he went for a walk around London. He’d go to the shops, get some milk for tea and little teething biscuits for Rosie (she was a biter now, with those two front teeth.).

John loved the surprised look on the pale man’s face when he came home at one o’clock with food from Angelo’s. John had made up some story about a coupon being sent to them. Sherlock played violin _ furiously _ that night.

It was a great plan.

 

==MSIMB==

 

Sherlock had figured it out.

The spreadsheet had vanished from his laptop.

Now John had to worry about Mycroft being involved with his dating life. 

John was at one of the other pubs, on another one of his random pub nights. Mrs Hudson was watching Rosie that night. John was nervous now. He knew that Sherlock knew that he knew (which was a ridiculous line he hated to say let alone think) so it was only a matter of how long before Sherlock found another pattern or followed behind in another cab.

When the woman approached him, John stared at her for only a few seconds before realizing she had been sent by Sherlock.

The woman looked eerily close to The Woman.

Her nose was a bit flatter and bigger, her cheekbones less sharp, eyes round inside of narrow, but the rest was a near match. John declined. He stuttered through the whole thing. The woman sauntered off with a displeased frown. John was going to smack Sherlock on the back of his head.

He had down his drink, prepared to march back to Baker Street, when another woman came up. This time, she looked like Molly. Mousy, brown hair in a ponytail, big brown soft eyes.

John will admit, he nearly took that one up on her offer. It had been the reminder of  _ why _ she looked like Molly that made John remember why he had to say  _ no _ .

He didn’t go out for two weeks after that. He went to work at the clinic, played with Rosie, and had a case with Sherlock. John went out to another random bar on a random night. That time, he was actually  _ hoping  _ to have sex with someone. He would that night. Even if it was Sherlock’s  _ selection _ or whatever.

But John never got the chance.

Because the next woman-the  _ very next  _ Sherlock sent woman-had short ginger hair, brown eyes, and was a bit round at the sides.

You don’t exactly want to have sex with a woman who looks like Mycroft Holmes. Or when  _ thinking _ about how you know  _ why _ Sherlock chose a woman who looks like the British Government.

John stormed back to Baker Street.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair. His fingers were steepled at his chin. His long wiry legs were crossed so he could somehow squeeze his entire body on that tiny chair. His colour changing eyes were closed. He was no doubt deep in his Mind Palace.

Rosie had decided to come up to play with Sherlock, sometime while John was gone. She had fallen asleep curled up in the cross of Sherlock’s legs. She looked utterly peaceful. It took John a minute to realize Sherlock had actually  _ fallen asleep _ with Rosie.

Somehow that image, the image of Sherlock John had come to see as normal, mixed with the image of his peacefully sleeping child, made John deduced something out himself.

He was in love with Sherlock Holmes.

_ Bugger. _

(Though in the morning, he remembered he was supposed to be angry. Sherlock had pretended to be annoyed that Rosie had drooled on his clothes, which he thought was a good case of justice served.)

(If Sherlock stared at John at little too long after he smiled, John hadn’t noticed.)

 

==MSIMB==

 

It was a while before he thought about leaving the flat again. Rosie had turned two. She was walking. John didn’t let his sudden deduction change anything.

(If his eyes lingered on Sherlock more often, especially in that purple button-up, well who could judge him on that?)

Around the same time, Sherlock had stopped pushing for John to leave. He never complained (more than he used to) when John gave him tea. He was seeming to...dare John say... _ want _ his company.

John’s chest felt warm. He immediately disregarded that. It took Sherlock ages to admit he liked Irene, let alone women in general. What were the chances he’d be interested in  _ men _ , not just John.

But John knew when the spreadsheet had changed. He didn’t need to look. The results had made themselves known.

He was celebrating a big case closing with Greg, and some of the other officers at NSY. They had invited Sherlock (mostly out of courtesy) and he said no (less out of courtesy).

But it had been a hard case. They had been chasing the killer down for a week ( _ “An EIGHT, John! A proper EIGHT!” _ ) so now Sherlock was following doctor’s orders and getting some  _ sleep _ , since he hadn’t even  _ before  _ the case  _ started _ .

Sherlock had looked a bit disgusted that John had decided to go. John briefly wondered what plan Sherlock had when he left. Would his tea mugs be used to store frog livers? Should he expect to find Rosie had been given sugar to test the effects of how strong her metabolism was?

None of that happened. John made a mental note to talk to the consulting detective about them anyway, just in case. 

It was a man, talking to him. This time Sherlock hadn’t even tried to disguise it. The man had said _ ‘Sherlock sent me. He said you would know what for.’ _

This bloke had been nice. 

Except he looked too much like Anderson.

Yep. He was angry again. 

There were other blokes that night. It was like every time he turned one down, another one took his place. Sherlock had been thorough with them. A few more looked like Anderson, one Mycroft lookalike, John had briefly wondered why there weren’t any greg lookalikes, except he remembered he was standing  _ next _ to Greg so it would be awkward.

Speaking of the inspector, John would have gone to Greg for help, except the older man had fun taking the piss out the whole thing. No doubt the rumors about him dating Sherlock would come back now. 

John could never bring himself to start the argument with Sherlock about this, when he went back to the flat. He had been _ invited back home _ by a least a dozen men that night, none of them he left the bar with. 

He knew if he started shouting, he would reveal something he wasn’t ready to talk about his feelings yet. He didn’t want to admit he _ had _ feelings.

(Sherlock was worried about doing that too. It wouldn’t be the first time he adjusted to a human emotion. This wasn’t how he expected jealousy to feel.)

 

==MSIMB==

 

By the time John realized who the bloke looked like, they’d already met for coffee three times.

He wasn’t one of Sherlock’s  _ ‘dates’ _ . They had met at a shop. They went to a cafe the next day, then for the next two days.

They talked about a lot. John talked some about being a doctor, that  _ yes _ he was _ that  _ John Watson, he talked a little about Rosie. The bloke talked about his job as a lawyer, talked about his own flatmate, his hobby of football on weekends.

It was the lunch that John realized he was  _ dating _ this man. It was the lunch he realized the man looked like _ Sherlock. _

He had the brown hair, so dark you’d think it was black. He had curls, but none of the ones John had seen on Sherlock that were begging for someone to mess up with their fingers. He had icy blue eyes. They didn’t scan the way Sherlock’s did, but they were still sharp. He was pale. He didn’t have Sherlock’s sharp cheekbones. He was slim, but not as much as Sherlock.

_ Bugger. _

Needlessly to say, John left the lunch early. He apologized about it, while mentally telling himself to  _ never _ see him again.

Well...

That was before Sherlock found out.

John didn’t see him until at a crime scene later that afternoon. The pale detective was going on a rant about how inept the police had to be not to see it was obviously the victim’s ex-wife, jealous that the victim had left her for a man. John knew he was smiling dopily the longer the rant went on.

It was when Sherlock looked at John impatiently did John school his features.

Sherlock came up beside him, while they waited for a cab when they were finished.

“What was his name?” Sherlock asked suddenly.

So suddenly, John paused a moment. “Benedict.” He answered truthfully.

“Must be serious.” Sherlock noted “You went for coffee with him three times, and for lunch.” He said this all with a bit of distaste in his voice.

“Wasn’t too serious, not really.” John agreed.

“Clearly it was. You’ve not slept with him. You think seriously about the ones you don’t sleep with.” Sherlock pointed out to John. There was just a pinch of  _ stress _ in his words, _ panic. _

There was something John would never admit, to anyone, ever. There was a  _ tiny _ part of his brain, that encouraged him to play on Sherlock’s childish level. The one that whispered a really good idea on how to handle Sherlock’s slow apparent jealousy.

John grinned easily at Sherlock, just as the cab pulled up. “Everyone knows you don’t sleep with them until the third date.” Then climbed in the cab, leaving a surprised Sherlock on the sidewalk.

Sherlock was playing violin angrily from downstairs. John laughed, which got Rosie to giggle with him. Watson against Holmes, now things were normal.

 

==MSIMB==

 

If he was going to make Sherlock jealous, he was going to drive him wild. He was wearing one of his good shirts. A dark blue button-up, clean trousers, none of his jumpers, his hair brushed all nice. John could practically see Sherlock’s look of shock when he came downstairs ready to _ impress. _ He’d try to cover it up, maybe give John a raised eyebrow and pretend John wasn’t even there.

John’s imagination, while great for adding a bit of drama to the blog, could never have properly captured Sherlock’s  _ ‘oh shit he’s hot’ _ face. His eyes had widened, eyebrows near flying up into his hair. His hands, which had previously been holding a relaxed grip on the newspaper, tightened. The poor newspaper crackled under his clenched fists,

John was proud of himself.

“You’re not leaving tonight.” Sherlock stated. “Mrs Hudson went to visit her sister, and Molly had an emergency at the hospital.”

“Why don’t you-”

“I will not watch Rosie, simply because she prefers it when you are home. It won’t do if you spend another night out.” Sherlock explained in his usual uptight way, not looking up from his newspaper.

“She’s already asleep. You won’t have to do anything but listen for her.”

“She could wake up.”

_ ‘He doesn’t even read the paper! He just does it to annoy me!’ _

_ ‘...and it’s working.’ _

Two can play this game.

John went over to his chair. He dropped down into it, putting on a mask of indifference. “Then I will sit here, consumed with lust for the rest of the evening.”

In the end, that was probably not the best thing to say.

Or the perfect thing to say.

It depended on which chair you were sitting in.

To his credit, Sherlock stayed in his chair for nearly three seconds.

He threw the newspaper to the floor, rushing over to John’s chair in what only be described as a flurry of movement. Before the doctor could process it, the detective climbed his chair to straddle John’s legs.

Sherlock didn’t give John time to say otherwise. He cupped both sides of his flatmates face, leaning down to  _ smother  _ John with a kiss. Not that John wouldn’t mind, what a way to go. Death by a Sherlock Holmes kiss.

John had wondered about Sherlock kissing for years. When he was still getting to know the man, he’d thought Sherlock would be shy about it. There would be hesitance in everything. His tongue would be shy when they kissed. But the more John learned about the detective, the more he knew Sherlock would be  _ demanding _ .

Sherlock would control every aspect of the kiss. He’d decide when (or even  _ if) _ John could touch him. He’d decide when tongues would be involved, and when their tongues would wrestle Sherlock’s would assault John’s until Sherlock won. He stopped thinking about this ages ago, sometime after the Fall. He was regretting that decision as Sherlock’s tongue dug it’s way into his mouth.

John stopped being docile in the kiss. He kissed Sherlock back just as hard. He let his arms wrap around Sherlock’s back, keeping him down in John’s lap. One of his hands reached to Sherlock’s brown curls, finally allowed to run his hands through them. He gave them a slight tug, just to see what would happen.

Sherlock  _ moaned _ against John’s mouth.

He tugged on the curls again. John used his grip to guide the two of them towards Sherlock’s bedroom.


End file.
